


the cherry on top

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Jealous Sherlock, John still likes him tho, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Omega John Watson, Omegaverse, Oral Sex, Sherlock is a gay baby, Sherlock is the jealous trash bag this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John's never shown any interest in his Alpha flatmate, despite Sherlock's pining. When a case requires a different approach than usual, Sherlock finds himself struggling to keep his feelings to himself.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 403





	the cherry on top

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yorkiepug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yorkiepug/gifts).



> For my dear Yorkiepug, who requested Jealous Alpha Sherlock and Omega John flirting with another Alpha. I haven't written a lot of Omegaverse, so hopefully, I did the story justice!

“Mister O’Brien, did your ex ever mention the victim?” Sherlock’s question is pointed, his tone rough with frustration. Fingers pressed to his temples, he stares at the young man on the other side of the table through squinted eyes. The young man is an Alpha, and a potential lead on the main suspect in a murder case Sherlock can almost see the end of. All he needs is the Alpha’s statement, the confirmation that O’Brien’s ex-boyfriend had ties to the dead Beta, and he can call the case closed. 

O’Brien shrugs. His expression is sullen and sly, and he side-eyes Sherlock with a hint of a smirk. “I don’t know,” he replies in an off-hand tone. “Maybe.” He shrugs again. 

He is acting purposefully obtuse. The young Alpha is unbonded and full of pheromones, piss and vinegar and a marked distaste for authority. His displeasure permeates the room with a sharp, lemony scent that reminds Sherlock unpleasantly of Pine-Sol, making it hard to focus. He’s resorted to breathing through his mouth, though it doesn’t help much. And Sherlock isn’t the only one reacting to the young Alpha’s territorial scenting. Lestrade, standing by the door, keeps surreptitiously brushing his hand over his mouth under the guise of a forced, fake cough. No doubt it’s an attempt to gain even a brief respite from the smell. Unsubtle as the technique is, Sherlock can’t blame him. 

The only one who seems unaffected is John. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, the Omega watches with an unreadable expression. Sherlock glances at him, catching a raised eyebrow and a small head tilt, and sighs. There’s nothing for it — they’ll have to get a Beta in here. After twenty minutes without progress, it’s clear that O’Brien isn’t willing to cooperate. Not like this, with two mature Alphas in the room.

Sherlock huffs before rising to his feet. “Well, Mister O’Brien,” he says, eyeing the young Alpha with an annoyed expression, “I’d say you’ve been helpful, but that would be a lie.” He steps back from the table and turns toward Lestrade, reluctantly prepared to admit defeat. 

But John catches his attention first. 

He pushes off the wall without a word and drops into the vacated seat. Sherlock pauses and turns back with a frown. “John,” he begins, only for John to shoot him a _look_. A look that, very clearly, tells Sherlock to back down.

Sherlock does, though not before pursing his lips and exchanging a glance with Lestrade. The DI just shrugs, and Sherlock hovers, caught between remaining close to John or joining Lestrade near the door. In the end, he decides to stand slightly behind and to the side of John, unwilling to step away entirely. 

There’s no apparent motive or reason for him to remain. John doesn’t need Sherlock to loom over him, nor does he require backup. He’s more than capable of handling himself, and he’d be the first to tell anyone to piss off if they ever suggested otherwise. Sherlock knows all of this — knows John doesn’t need an Alpha and is all too painfully aware that John is not _his_ Omega _._ John doesn’t belong to anyone and would scoff at such a term even with a bond bite. He and Sherlock aren’t together. They’ve never even discussed anything like sharing heats or moving their relationship forward, despite Sherlock’s unrelenting desire for them to do just that. Even though John has never extended such an invitation nor shown even a modicum of passing interest, Sherlock can never quite manage to give up hope. 

And with that hope comes some level of protective jealousy. Usually kept under such rigid control, it’s far less reined-in today. Sherlock blames it on O’Brien’s territorial posturing, but it might have something to do with John’s approaching heat. He’s due in a week, and that knowledge makes it difficult for Sherlock to step away, even despite all the rational reasons he should.

He stands behind John, arms crossed and jaw clenched, waiting to see what John will do. Sherlock’s curiousity is sated quickly and turns sour when John leans forward. Tilting his head to the side, he looks at O’Brien from beneath the fan of his pale lashes. 

“Hi,” he says, offering a bright smile and holding out a hand, “I’m John.” 

O’Brien perks up at once, sitting upright with a flicker of interest. The surly, sullen energy hanging about him disappears, replaced with keen eyes and a flash of colour on his cheeks. His nostrils flare, his inhale deep and audible even across the table, pupils dilating as he breathes in a lungful of John’s scent. Attuned to it as he is, Sherlock can still make out John’s smell, even when O’Brien’s lemony odour increases. John smells almost floral, like a blend of bergamot and cedar, the pleasing combination made more potent by his approaching heat. Sherlock always finds comfort in John’s smell, but right now, it is a far cry from soothing. It is a reminder that there are at least two other Alphas in the room. A sobering fact that Sherlock has no valid claim over the one Omega he’s ever showed an iota of interest in. 

Never mind Omega. John is the only _human being_ Sherlock has ever wanted to be his. Watching him smile at another Alpha — an uppity, snot-nosed brat like O’Brien — makes Sherlock want to gnash his teeth and dig his nails into something. 

Preferably O’Brien’s smug face. 

Sherlock purses his lips and struggles to swallow back the growl rising in his throat. He nearly fails when O’Brien reaches across the table and grips John’s hand. The handshake looks far friendlier than the rigid clasp he offered Sherlock when they shook hands earlier.

“It’s a pleasure.” O’Brien’s eyes flicker over John with evident interest and approval before he adds, _“John,”_ in a tone that turns Sherlock’s already tense muscles into steel.

This time, he almost lets the growl escape and digs his nails hard into his own arms to keep silent. He forces the aggression back and swallows hard, throat clicking. Lestrade shoots him a concerned look that Sherlock ignores. He’s focused on John, unblinking, tunnel-vision blocking out the rest of the room. 

He silently prays for John to laugh and brush off the young Alpha’s advances. 

But John doesn’t. And their hands linger, O’Brien eyeing John’s throat the longer their fingers touch. When they finally release the handshake, John rests his hands on the table, keeping them within reach. O’Brien stares at them with evident hunger, his face far more animated than when Sherlock tried to get him to talk. 

Baffled by his own reaction, a little dazed by the burn of jealousy hazing the edges of his vision, Sherlock blinks. He shifts his stance, hoping John will look his way. 

John doesn’t so much as glance at him. Teeth pressing gently into his bottom lip, he drops his eyes to the table. His face is arranged into a demure expression that Sherlock has never seen him wear before, not in the two years they’ve known one another. The sight of it fills Sherlock’s stomach with a roiling, twisting knot of something that feels very much like the beginnings of an ulcer. The sensation rises, sitting in his chest like a supernova and stealing away his breath. With it comes the slow realization that John is _flirting_ with O’Brien. 

Blatantly, laying it on thick and heavy-handed, right in front of both Sherlock and Lestrade. 

The realization is as shocking as it is devastating. John has never once flirted with Sherlock — not like _this_ — and here he is, shooting coy little glances at O’Brien like he’s some stereotypical, blushing Omega. As if John is anything close to typical. As if he makes eyes at unbonded Alphas every day. Like it is nothing. Like Sherlock isn’t a perfectly suitable and unbonded Alpha who also _shares a flat with John._

Some small voice, probably what remains of Sherlock’s dwindling rationality, whispers that John is playing a part. He stepped in when Sherlock failed, like the excellent partner he is. John is merely employing a tactic Sherlock has used time and again with numerous Omega clients. It is brilliant, a great idea, something Sherlock should have suggested himself. That’s all it is, just an act. 

An act or not, must John really put so much _effort_ into it? Sherlock feels sick. 

“I admit that I’m a little confused on a few points,” John is saying, the sound of his voice — lilting higher than usual and sweet as sugar — bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts. “Maybe you can answer a few questions I have?” He tips his head and offers a broad, winning smile. “Just so I can get some clarity?” John waves his hands in a playful, almost embarrassed manner. “Can’t seem to make sense out of any of it, myself. Guess I need someone to explain it to me.” That same smile again, radiant in its guilelessness. Sherlock struggles not to retch. “I bet you could make me understand.” John’s lashes flutter, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his face. “Please?” 

Oh, he is laying it on _thick_. It is a blatant display, one that Sherlock tries to rationalize as fake even while the less evolved parts of his brain snarl and froth with pitiful jealousy. 

Predictably, O’Brien eats it up with a look of dazed wonder. Sherlock can’t even blame him. He’s having a hard time of it himself, struggling to resist the pull of John’s act. Even Lestrade, still standing over by the door, looks stunned. 

Sherlock shoots him a warning look, and the DI blanches. He clears his throat and straightens his back, staring at the wall just past John with a carefully blank expression. Mollified by Lestrade’s deference, Sherlock turns his focus back to the conversation. His gaze narrows just as O’Brien inhales deeply and closes his eyes with a pleased little smile. 

“I’d love to answer your questions, John,” he says, his voice nearly a purr. “Whatever you want, just ask.” His eager tone makes Sherlock’s shoulders hunch, his hands curling into claws around his biceps. He feels his lips curling back and presses them into a thin line. 

He nearly groans when John breathes, “Oh, _wonderful._ That would be just fantastic.”

Sherlock huffs. Those are _his words,_ the compliments John gives _him_. Hearing him gift those same words of praise to O’Brien makes Sherlock choke on the taste of bile rising in his throat. 

O’Brien shoots him a smug look, and Sherlock struggles to remain where he is, fighting with the urge to launch himself over the table. He drops his arms instead, clenches his hands into fists, and pastes a strained smile on his face. It feels more like a grimace, and John nudges him with a pointed elbow before turning his attention back to O’Brien. 

“Why don’t you tell me about your ex?” 

After John’s flirtatious onslaught, O’Brien can’t seem to shut up. Standing just behind John like a statue, Sherlock listens as the young Alpha answers each of John’s questions with apparent eagerness, his eyes moving covetously over John’s broad shoulders. John, for his part, never lets up on his act. He lays it on thick and then thicker until Sherlock is struggling not to gag at every fluttering sweep of eyelashes. Every careful tap of coquettish finger to John’s bottom lip. 

Just watching makes him feel sick. Lestrade is clearly just as affected, his woodsmoke-and-coffee scent growing more potent the longer the interview goes on. Sherlock can only imagine how he must smell himself, subjected to John’s heartbreakingly relentless flirtation at such close quarters. If John bats his eyelashes at that airhead Alpha one more time, Sherlock thinks he might throw up in his own mouth. 

John does it again, and Sherlock swallows back a nauseated burp. 

He forces himself to focus just as John says, “Well, Mister O’Brien. You’ve been _very_ helpful.” John moves to stand, and O’Brien hurries to as well, his eyes going wide with alarm when it seems John might be leaving. “I can’t thank you enough for answering my questions.” John flashes a smile that looks genuine enough to make Sherlock’s stomach twist into a sour knot before he turns to Sherlock. “Anything else, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks stupidly down at him and shakes his head. John’s face is slightly flushed, his bottom lip wet and a bit pink from his teeth pressing into it. It takes a moment for Sherlock to regain the power of speech, and his reply sounds a little raspy when he does. “No,” he responds, fixated on John’s encouraging smile. He hones in on that bottom lip, his breathing turning unsteady and making his head swim. “No, that’s… that’s good.” He swallows, his own lips trembling into a tentative smile. “Perfect, actually. Um. Well done.” 

John preens, looking pleasantly surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Thank you,” he hums, some of that forced flirtatiousness lingering in his words. It makes him sound coy, maybe a little playful, and Sherlock nearly swoons at having the full force of John’s wiles directed at him. 

O’Brien makes a sound like he’s swallowed his tongue. “Wait,” he says, panic making his request into a demand. “I… I’m not sure if I told you everything I know.” He blurts the words with desperation, and Sherlock’s lips curl back. Now that John is back on his side, all but ignoring the other Alpha, he can manage a sneer. 

But before he can tell O’Brien off, John turns back to the young Alpha and grins. “I doubt that, Mister O’Brien,” he says, voice dropping into a deeper register that makes Sherlock shiver, and O’Brien choke quietly. “You’ve been _very_ thorough.” 

“But,” O’Brien protests weakly. The impact John is having on him is apparent. O’Brien’s pupils dilate and he grips the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands. 

Sherlock makes a soft sound of derisive amusement, and O’Brien’s eyes snap to him. They narrow, and his lips twist to the side in a snarl. Drawing himself up to his full height — nowhere near Sherlock’s, but impressive enough — he turns his attention to John. The smile on his face makes something hot and unpleasant sink heavily into the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.

“I’m glad I could help, John,” O’Brien says in an overly friendly tone that has Sherlock tensing all over again. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, you make sure to let me know.” Reaching into his pocket, O’Brien pulls out a business card. He sets it on the table and, holding John’s gaze with an intense stare, slowly slides it across the table with two fingers. He doesn’t release it, waiting until John reaches for the card before letting his fingers brush John’s hand. 

John freezes at the contact, watching O’Brien closely. His expression is hard to read, and Sherlock stares at his face in profile. The unpleasant, burning _thing_ in his stomach starts to feel like molten lead.

“Call anytime,” O’Brien says, still holding John’s gaze. “If you have questions or need to follow-up. Or,” his eyes flicker to Sherlock, lips tugging into a sneer at the edges, “if you’d like some company.” He looks back at John, and his smile turns predatory. _“Anything.”_

Sherlock waits for John to recoil in disgust. Or snort. Or maybe launch himself over the table and feed O’Brien one of his fists. He pauses and quivers and prays for John to do something that communicates clear rejection.

John does none of those things. He stands for a moment, eyes locked with O’Brien’s, silent. Sherlock can’t help but notice that their hands are still touching over the business card, and he struggles not to squirm with jealousy. 

Slowly, John slides the card — and his hand — out from under O’Brien’s grip. His face remains impossible to read for a moment longer before a thoughtful, considering expression appears. “Thank you, Mister O’Brien,” he says, and Sherlock’s heart clenches at the genuine note in John’s tone. “I’ll keep the invitation in mind.” 

To Sherlock’s horror, John slides the card into his pocket. 

Even after Sally appears to whisk O’Brien away for paperwork and an official statement, Sherlock is still reeling. He stands next to the table and glares at the metal surface with a furrowed brow. Lestrade keeps shooting him wary looks, which Sherlock ignores. 

John is quiet, giving off an introspective aura that makes Sherlock clench his teeth until something pops in his jaw. John is clearly waiting for him to speak or announce their departure, and the longer Sherlock takes to do either, the tenser the air in the small interview grows. 

It’s Lestrade who breaks the silence first. He does so by clearing his throat, patting his palms against his thighs, and moving away from the door. “Well,” he says slowly, eyeing Sherlock with an appraising expression, “that went surprisingly well.”

Sherlock growls low in his throat but doesn’t speak otherwise. 

Lestrade’s swallow is audible. He turns to John, and his tone shifts enough that Sherlock looks up with slitted eyes. “That was quick thinking on your part, John,” he says, clearly appreciative. “I thought we’d have to get Sally in here for sure.” 

The smile John offers looks genuinely pleased. “Thanks, Greg.” He sighs and rubs at his jaw, casting a thoughtful glance at the vacated seat O’Brien previously occupied. “Didn’t expect him to open up so easily.” 

Sherlock scoffs. Both Lestrade and John ignore him. 

“Well, guess you surprised us all.” Greg sounds impressed, and Sherlock’s gaze latches onto him with the force of a laser targeting system. “Too bad we can’t hire you on full time. I bet those baby blues would come in handy on more than just this case.” To Sherlock’s growing alarm, Lestrade winks. 

John snorts with good-natured amusement. “Not sure they’d be enough to get me past the first interview.” 

“With that act?” Lestrade waves a playful hand, his gaze still far more complimentary than Sherlock is comfortable with. “Hell, I bet you could charm your way right into my seat.” The low growl Sherlock bites out makes Lestrade sputter and add, “Er, job. My seat as in my job. You know, as Detective-Inspector.” He clears his throat and looks confused. “I think I, uh, need to go take care of something.”

Sherlock levels him with a hard stare. “I think you do.” 

“Right.” The smile Lestrade offers is strained. “Yep.” John looks confused, glancing between the DI and Sherlock with a small frown. Sherlock clenches his jaw, upper lip rolling back, and Lestrade appears pained. “Anyways,” his voice sounds gruff, and he moves as if to clap John on the shoulder before catching Sherlock’s eye and seeming to think better of it. “Well done today, you two. Good work.” He brings his hands together, nods awkwardly, and leaves the room at something close to a march. 

Left alone with John, Sherlock pulls in a deep breath to banish the anger sparking at the edges of his vision. It fills his lungs with John’s scent — a mixture of confusion and concern — and does very little to clear his head. 

John turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “That was odd,” he comments, looking over his shoulder at Lestrade’s exit. “Wonder what’s gotten into him.”

“What indeed,” Sherlock snaps, petulant. He ignores John’s perplexed look and sweeps his coat tightly around himself before striding across the room and pulling the door open with far too much force. 

John catches it before it can strike the wall and follows Sherlock out into the hallway. “Alright, what’s gotten into _you_ , then?” he asks, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock’s too-fast pace. 

Sherlock’s response is an irritated grunt. Outwardly, he is the very picture of sullenness. Inwardly, he feels like he’s caving in on himself. 

After all the time he’s been with John, lived with John, spent mornings, afternoons and evenings with him, John has never once made a move. Never once outright flirted or asked Sherlock to take their relationship beyond friends. There have been looks shared between them, smouldering and incendiary, but they never go beyond that. One of them — often John — usually breaks the eye contact when things start to feel tangible. Sherlock has resigned himself to accepting John’s apparent disinterest. He comforts himself with the reminder that John doesn’t seem to have his eye on any of the other Alphas in their lives. 

So far, in all the time Sherlock has known John, he has never expressed interest in anyone. Not until today. 

The flirting was a transparent ploy, or so Sherlock believed until John accepted O’Brien’s card and planted a seed of doubt. Maybe John’s interrogative tactics hadn’t been an act at all, and he is genuinely interested in the young Alpha. The thought is devastating. Sherlock feels like he is collapsing inward, his heart shattering and his mind racing with the force of a train on an unavoidable collision course.

A possibility stops him in his tracks. John nearly runs into his back and curses in surprise, but Sherlock ignores him. The thoughts arising in his brain are far too loud, far too awful to pay John any mind. 

What if John calls O’Brien? What if he accepts the Alpha’s offer for ‘anything?’ The possibility is terrifying. Will John start to spend his heats with O’Brien? Will he bring him into their _home?_ Make Sherlock smell their coupling as it hangs over the flat like the stench of pestilence? 

What if — god forbid — they decide to _bond?_

Sherlock sucks in a ragged breath and closes his eyes. The thoughts are pure torture, but he can’t seem to shake them away. Can’t seem to silence them. The last, the possibility of John bonding with another Alpha, is the worst. Such a thing will surely destroy him — how can John do this to him? How can he betray Sherlock like this? Oh, god, John is going to do it, isn’t he? He’s going to bond with O’Brien, and Sherlock will be left bereft and wanting on the outskirts of his life. 

The spiral is fast and immediate, and Sherlock finds himself taking loud, unsteady gasps of air. Filtering in through the haze, like radio waves through the static of a poor signal, is John’s voice.

“Alright, Sherlock. Just breathe. There you go. Yeah, like that, deep, slow breaths. There you go, I’ve got you.”

Sherlock latches onto John’s familiar voice. He obeys the gentle commands, his head clearing slowly with the introduction of fresh oxygen. He realizes that he’s still standing in the middle of the hallway at New Scotland Yard, though no longer on the edge of hyperventilating. John is standing before him with his hands on Sherlock’s arms, peering up into his face with concern. 

Sherlock blinks and stares dumbly back at him. The eye contact only makes his racing thoughts worse, and Sherlock feels his earlier jealousy flicker back to life. The uptick in reactionary response makes him huff, and John’s eyes widen as the air in the hall grows heavy with Sherlock’s orange zest and pine scent. 

An officer passing by pauses, eyes narrowing as they dart between both Sherlock and John. Judging by the way his hackles rise, he’s an Alpha as well.

Sherlock snarls at him in a clear challenge, and the man quickly moves along. 

“Jesus,” John mutters, side-eyeing the officer as he hurries down the hall with a sheepish look. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Gotten into _me?”_ Sherlock replies, incredulous, his attention snapping back to John. _“Me?”_

John stares at him. Lips pursed, he looks thoughtful. His eyes search Sherlock’s face for a moment before he sighs. “Come here, you git.” Catching Sherlock by the arm, he steers him through a door off to the side. The inside is small and cramped. It's clearly a storage room, extra desks and chairs stacked in the corner with an old coffee machine that looks to have seen better days. 

Sherlock only has a moment to take in the room before the door closes, and John flicks on the lights. Several bulbs are burnt out, and the remaining buzz incessantly as they throw off weak attempts at illumination. 

“Budget cuts?” John says, half-joking. The small smile on his lips falls away when he looks at Sherlock again. “Alright, what the hell is your problem?” he asks, taking in Sherlock’s hunched shoulders and tense jaw. Before Sherlock can reply, the light overhead lets out a particularly loud hum, making John look up and frown. 

The motion extends his neck, and — with all the jealousy and devastation swirling within his head — Sherlock reacts before his rational mind can stop him. He surges forward, crowding John up against the wall next to the stacked tables. John lets out a low grunt of surprise and catches his balance with a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt. 

“Sherlock, what are you—” he falls silent, the words cutting out when Sherlock makes a pathetic noise low in his chest. It sounds more like a wounded animal than a human sound, and Sherlock feels his cheeks flare with embarrassment. But worse than his embarrassment is the thought of John leaving him. The possibility that he might lose John to the likes of O’Brien sparks a possessive jealousy Sherlock has never felt before. 

It's all-encompassing. 

Sherlock ducks his head, angling beneath John’s jaw, pushing John’s chin upward to get at his target. Startled, John rocks his head back and huffs. The movement bares his throat, and Sherlock can’t help it. He scents John, does it with relish, his greed evident in the loud, enthusiastic sound of his breathing. John’s scent — floral, intoxicating, perfect — fills Sherlock’s senses. It rushes into his lungs and makes fire spark behind his closed eyelids. He’s finally forced to breathe out, growling at the loss of smell until he can inhale again, doing so with rising bliss.

This close to John, with John’s scent filling his nostrils without impediment, Sherlock feels drugged. Except it’s far better than heroin, even better than cocaine, and he breathes John in like a ravenous creature consumes its first meal after days of going without. 

With the impact of John’s scent slowing his brain, it takes Sherlock nearly a full minute to realize that John isn’t unaffected by what’s happening. He’s still clutching Sherlock’s shirt, but his fingers have gone shaky, nails digging into the fabric. There’s a noise rumbling deep in his chest and rising up from his curved throat. A needy vocalization, something like a purr, and the sound of it makes Sherlock quiver. 

“Don’t bond with O’Brien,” he hears himself saying, the words breathless and desperate. Possessive. Sherlock thinks he should wince at the way he sounds, but he can’t help it. It’s a bit not good, and he doesn't entirely care. He growls, deep and dark and helpless, nuzzling into the dip of John’s neck. “Don’t do it, John. Please, don’t do it.” 

“Sherlock,” John gasps, his eyes flashing open. His grip tightens on Sherlock’s shirt, the soft skin of his neck heating with a flush of warmth beneath Sherlock’s lips. Exactly when he went from scenting to kissing John’s neck escapes Sherlock, but the shift occurred somewhere. Lips are followed by tongue and teeth and pressure as he fastens his mouth over John’s pulse point and sucks. 

John’s body jerks, a long, low moan escaping while he settles back against the wall. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock,” he sighs out, breathless and reedy. One of his hands releases its grip on Sherlock’s shirt, sliding up to tangle in Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock braces himself and closes his eyes, softening his lips in preparation for John shoving him back. It’s inevitable: he can’t spring his jealousy on John like this and expect anything less than for John to react with anger. After all, he’s never shown interest before. Sherlock really is an idiot — he’s gone and wrecked it all. John will surely leave him now, will undoubtedly march out of here and tell Sherlock to bugger off out of his life. 

All of this flashes through Sherlock’s mind in a split second, and he makes a soft, pitiful noise against John’s throat, prepared for rejection. 

But John doesn’t shove him away. His fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair, but then they soften and stroke through the mussed curls, making Sherlock shiver. After a moment, once Sherlock has stopped quivering, John grips his chin and tilts his head up. It’s awkward, with the way Sherlock is half-crouched and bent over to get at John’s neck. 

He looks at John with trepidation. 

“Don’t tell me you think I was actually interested in him?” John asks. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but John must see the answer in his face because he scowls.

“God, you _do.”_ He shakes his head with a sigh, eyes rising to the ceiling as if seeking patience. The disbelief makes hope flicker deep in Sherlock’s stomach. 

“You’re… not?” he asks, straightening so he can look John in the face. John’s hand follows the movement, fingers clamped tightly on Sherlock’s chin as John favours him a stern expression. 

“Of course I’m not, you git,” he replies, still scowling. “I can’t believe that you would think… Hold on, you do the same thing with Omega clients all the time!” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, feeling a twist of something molten in his chest. “You took his _card,”_ he growls, jealousy returning in a fierce surge. It steals his breath and makes his chest vibrate with a possessive sound that surprises them both. 

John stares. For a moment, he stays silent. Then his tongue darts out, sweeps over his bottom lip, his eyes darkening as his expression turns thoughtful. “I was just being polite,” he says, still staring at Sherlock, studying his face. “You’re jealous.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Sherlock stiffens. John sounds surprised, and Sherlock can’t stand it.

“I am _not,”_ he seethes, teeth clicking together. But he is, he very much is, because John is brilliant. John smells like Sherlock’s favourite tea and a forest after it rains, and Sherlock is utterly, horribly, _achingly jealous._

He begins to pace. Worked up and unfettered, Sherlock covers the small space, his heels clicking against the linoleum. He keeps it up until John sighs and begins to remove his jacket. It seems he thinks they’re going to be here for a while. The small room is hot, and Sherlock is aware that John knows him well enough not to interrupt Sherlock’s thinking. And thinking is what he needs to do because his brain is _malfunctioning_. 

Moments ago, he had his nose pressed to John’s throat — was inhaling him like John was his first breath of air after drowning. John hadn’t stopped him. Had, in fact, stood there and groaned and clutched at Sherlock. These are facts, washing through Sherlock’s lust-addled brain far too slowly. Sherlock is trying to make sense of it, trying to put this immense feeling of frustrated wanting into words, when John slides his arms out of his jacket.

The motion wafts his smell in Sherlock’s direction. It releases the scent particles that have sat on John’s body all day, caught in place by the jacket's thick material. Sweat, aftershave, laundry detergent, it all washes over Sherlock like the tide over the beach. And, overlaying those smells is John's own scent. Bergamot and cedar, spicy and heady and alluring. 

Sherlock is back in front of John before he makes the conscious decision to move. He’s crowding him back into the wall again, but this time he does more than inhale. Sherlock groans deep in his chest, close enough that he can taste John on his tongue even before Sherlock licks from the hinge of John’s jaw to his earlobe. Taking the soft skin between his teeth, Sherlock tugs lightly, pulling a low sound from John that sets him afire, skin tingling head to toe with electric shocks. 

“Jesus,” John manages in a voice that sounds just the other side of wrecked. Again, he doesn’t push Sherlock away. This time, John doesn’t just fist his hands in Sherlock’s shirt and hold on. He _pulls,_ erasing the last of the sparse distance between them. The explicit consent imbued in the gesture pushes Sherlock over the edge, sends him tumbling into free-fall. 

It’s all he can do to press close and fumble at John’s shirt, working his hands beneath the hem and seeking out warm flesh. Mouth fastened on the curve of skin between neck and shoulder, Sherlock drags his fingers over the sparse hairs on John’s chest with a growl rumbling in his throat. He’s burning, blazing and shivering, fumbling to get John’s shirt pulled from his jeans, working his belt simultaneously. It’s clumsy, and John’s hands knock into his more often than not as he tugs at Sherlock’s fly with shaking fingers. 

There are hardly any words shared between them, just Sherlock’s panting and John’s soft, wheezing curses. Sherlock’s fingers finally slip the tongue of John’s belt free. He doesn’t bother pulling the leather from John’s jeans, just getting them loose enough to push a hand inside. 

The second he cups John through his pants, John goes stiff, then shivers to life as vibrations run over his skin. With his palm resting against John’s stomach, Sherlock can feel the goosebumps rising. He can feel the delicate quiver as he plays John like a violin, stroking slowly at first, then faster, firmer, legs almost buckling when John gets a hand on him. 

It’s perfect, exquisite, John’s hot palm cupping him through his pants. But it’s not enough, and Sherlock backs away just enough to push John’s hand away. He receives a frustrated growl and hushes John, soothing, whispering, “Wait. Just wait,” while he shoves John’s jeans and pants down to his ankles. He helps John kick them off, John worked up and panting. But the frustrated expression on his face disappears at once when Sherlock works his own trousers and pants halfway down his thighs. 

He doesn’t provide a wit of warning before circling his hands to John’s arse and lifting. John’s knees rise instinctually, thighs bracketing Sherlock’s hips, legs bending and locking in place at the ankles. He looks stunned, gaping until Sherlock surges forward. 

The kiss is searing, stealing John’s breath and wiping Sherlock’s mind clear. John isn’t light — he’s a full-grown man, made up of muscle, bone and a softened middle. He’s all firm, thick thighs and powerful arms. But Sherlock is desperate, and he’s aching, and if he shifts just right, he can balance John against the stack of tables and keep him upright. 

It’s worth the struggle. Sherlock’s cock — flushed red, thick and pulsing — drags up the inside of John’s thigh. It smears a trail of arousal over John’s skin before Sherlock grinds forward into John’s own cock. Smaller but no less aroused, the head nearly purple with how hard it has grown, John’s cock twitches against Sherlock’s. They both groan, the noise a rumble when it catches in Sherlock’s throat and shifts into a growl. 

Lips pressed to John’s temple, nose buried in his hair, Sherlock whispers, “Mine.” He repeats it, a soft chant interspersed with John’s name while their hips shift. As their bodies push and rock, slotting together and finding a rhythm. That possessive litany escapes Sherlock between moans and sighs. John matches the sounds with noises of his own, one hand locked on Sherlock’s hip, the other cinched deep in the sweaty curls at Sherlock’s nape. 

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to reach his peak. He’s been worked up and vibrating since John sank into the chair across from O’Brien and flashed those baby blues. The pressure flaring at the base of his spine erupts into a blaze, singing through his body like vibrations travelling through a plucked string. It resonates through each cell until Sherlock fixes his teeth — not quite a bite, he wouldn’t do that without John’s permission — on John’s right shoulder. Lips sealed, he muffles his climax against John’s dewy skin. 

His cum paints John’s thighs, his lower belly, the tail of his shirt. The first pulse is thick and constant, dribbling down into the second and then the third. Sherlock trembles through each surge, his knees shaking, bracing John against the wall, so he doesn’t drop him on the floor when his limbs go loose and liquid. 

John still hasn’t cum. He’s panting and rutting against Sherlock as Sherlock melts into his orgasm. Sherlock’s release slicks the way, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. 

Sherlock, setting John on his feet, still a little dazed by the force of his climax, drops to his knees. He does so in a quick dip. Before John can react to the motion, Sherlock grips him by the hips and swallows John’s cock down. 

It makes John shout, clapping a hand over his mouth. With his nose buried in John’s pubic hair, Sherlock can smell his arousal, John’s scent far more concentrated here. His thighs are slick, both from Sherlock’s release and John’s natural lubrication. This close to his heat, John’s body is already preparing him for mounting, his desire making him produce the slick that will allow him to accept a knot in a week’s time. 

The thought of that, the tantalizing possibility that Sherlock might even be invited to participate in that oncoming heat, makes Sherlock shiver. He feels John’s fingers in his hair, twining and tugging, and doubles down. Lavishing John’s cock with his tongue and lips, smearing his own cum over John’s thighs with reverent hands, Sherlock doesn’t let up. He brings John to the edge and pushes him over, making John release one of his hands to cover his mouth again, muffling the broken sound he makes. Somewhere in the garbled noise, he sobs Sherlock’s name into the spaces between his fingers. 

Trembling with awe, Sherlock grips John by the thighs. Fingers pressing into thick muscle, he swallows down every drop of cum that washes over his tongue. 

When John finally stops tensing, his back no longer curved with the force of it, he slumps. Sherlock lets him slip down, brings John down into his lap and curls over him. It’s a protective stance with John’s head tucked beneath his chin. There’s an instinctive component to it, Sherlock finds, his hands sliding over John’s back while he waits for John to catch his breath. The floor is hard beneath Sherlock’s still-bare backside, but he doesn’t care. He has John in his lap with John smelling of him and the tang of John’s cum in his mouth. 

It’s perfect. Heavenly. The blissful moment settles Sherlock’s fierce jealousy, melting the burning knot in his stomach, spreading it hot and languid through his body. Nose pressed into John’s sweat-dampened hair, Sherlock inhales deeply and breathes out in an audible sigh. 

John lifts his head at the sound, carefully slipping out from beneath Sherlock’s chin. Legs bracketing Sherlock’s hips, naked from the waist down, John purses his lip. He looks hard at Sherlock, silent for so long that Sherlock begins to panic. Then, he smiles. Slowly, John’s mouth tilts to the side in a wry grin. “Jealous git,” he says, the fondness in his tone taking the edge off his words. “So… this something we do now?” John gestures between them, a questioning expression on his face. 

Sherlock sags with relief. Arms looped over John’s shoulders, he breathes out a steadying breath. “Yes,” he replies, firm and only a touch ragged, “it is.” When he inhales, it’s more of John’s scent, mingled with his. The combination is far more addictive than Sherlock had ever dreamed.

“Well,” John clears his throat, nudging his lips lightly over Sherlock’s cheek, “it’s about damn time.” 

Warmth blossoms in Sherlock’s chest. He tightens his arms around John, futilely wishing he could absorb John right into his skin. But sitting tangled together is the next best thing, and they stay that way for a moment. Sherlock is pleased when he feels John’s nose brush his throat, the slow rush of air as John breathes him in. He rubs his cheek into the same spot, the marking a soothing reversal of Sherlock’s own desperate scenting from earlier. 

But all good things must come to an end, and John’s finger in his ribs shatters Sherlock’s bubble. “I can’t feel my knees,” John complains, ignoring Sherlock’s protests and prodding until the Alpha shifts back with a groan. Before Sherlock can shape his displeasure into coherent words, John drags him to his feet, grips him by the nape, and breathes in his ear, “Take me home to a proper bed, and I’ll make it up to you.”

Sherlock gasps, almost dizzy as his blood tries to rush back to his cock. The spent organ gives a feeble twitch, not nearly ready for another go but willing to put in the effort. Sherlock shakes his head, trying to clear his mind enough to reply. All he manages is a breathless, _“John.”_

John, for his part, is looking down at himself with a frown. “God, you made a mess of me, didn’t you?” He rubs at the half-dried cum smeared on his thighs. Sherlock, eyeing the marks with vivid satisfaction, grins. 

“Everyone will smell me on you,” he says, voice deepening with pleasure. 

Eyes narrowed, John shoots him a look. “You like that, do you?” he asks, stopping to pull up his bottoms.

Sherlock pouts at the disappearance of bare skin, reminding himself that the sooner they get home, the sooner he can see John nude again. The thought spurs him on, and he rises, fumbling his own pants and trousers up from his knees. Just as he’s fastening his belt, Sherlock hears John groan and looks up.

John is staring at the cum spattered on the bottom of his shirt. “Dammit,” he mutters, wiping ineffectively at the mess. 

Smirking, Sherlock strides forward and, holding John’s eyes, tucks John’s shirt into his jeans. His fingers linger, brushing John’s skin and making him shiver. “There,” Sherlock says, leaning down to grab John’s coat from where it lies on the floor. “Put this on, and no one will know.” 

John snorts. “They’ll smell me from a mile away.”

“Correction,” Sherlock says, his expression positively ravenous. “They’ll smell _me on you_ from a mile away.” 

Another groan from John. “You’re insufferable.” 

Sherlock shoots him a fond look before turning to the door. “Shall we?” 

With a loud sigh and a feigned air of annoyance, John nods. “If we must.” But there is a playful look in his eye. A smile at the edges of his lip as he brushes close when he passes Sherlock on the way into the hall. Sherlock, with a small swagger in his step, follows. They manage to make it out of the hallway this time, but their appearance in the bullpen draws attention. 

Every Alpha and Omega in the vicinity lifts their head, the Alphas sniffing, the Omegas eyeing John with knowing expressions. 

“Bloody hell,” John mutters under his breath, squinting at a particularly interested Alpha who is staring, unabashed. “Anyone ever teach you Alphas that it’s rude to stare?”

Sherlock bares his teeth in the woman’s direction, and she ducks out of sight. “Nope,” he says in response to John’s question, popping his lips around the _p._

John just sighs. “Maybe try not to strut so much, yeah?” Despite the tone, Sherlock can tell he’s secretly pleased, and he preens. 

The _pièce de résistance_ comes when they reach Lestrade’s office. The door opens, and the DI emerges first. He stops in his tracks, Sally bumping into his back. The Beta looks annoyed before she catches sight of John and Sherlock and rolls her eyes. “Freak,” she mutters, sidestepping her boss where he is still rooted in place. 

Staring at the two of them, Lestrade’s eyes slowly narrow. His nostrils flare, drawing Sherlock’s attention and earning a growl. But he bites back the next one, letting his lips spread in a slow, gleeful smile when he sees who is standing behind Sally.

O’Brien, pushing past the Beta officer with a frown, freezes in place. His eyes widen, nostrils twitching as he catches a whiff of the scent that made Lestrade stop like he’d hit an invisible wall. His eyes dart to John, widen further and shift to Sherlock.

Sherlock makes sure to favour him with a wide grin. “Ah, Mister O’Brien,” he hums, pushing a clearly false friendliness into the words. “Glad we caught you.” Reaching out to drift a hand over John’s arm before snagging his wrist — and ignoring the amused, slightly exasperated look John shoots him — Sherlock draws John close. “I think you forgot something.” 

Fury sparking in his eyes, O’Brien cooly replies, “Oh? What’s that?” His gaze shifts to John before a supercilious expression creeps over his face. “Hello again, John.”

“Hi,” John says flatly, unsmiling. O’Brien’s face falls. 

Sherlock struggles to keep his breathing steady at the stutter in his chest. Holding O’Brien’s gaze, Sherlock slips his hand lower, down John’s torso, over his hip. 

Lestrade, still standing in the doorway of his office, makes an awkward choking noise. Everyone ignores him, including Sally, who rolls her eyes and mutters, “Bloody Alphas,” under her breath. 

Sliding his hand into John’s pocket, Sherlock slowly, and with exaggerated effort, draws O’Brien’s business card out. Holding it between two fingers, he offers it to O’Brien with a smile that is all teeth. 

“Here you are,” he says with false cheer. “Seems you dropped this by mistake.” 

O’Brien stares at the card. His eyes flicker to John, but John is looking at Sherlock. Gazing up at him, in fact, with an amused look on his face that makes Sherlock want to ravage him all over again. Instead, he tilts forward and, in front of half of NSY, presses a lingering kiss to John’s temple. 

O’Brien makes a rough, ragged sound in his throat. 

“Thanks for all your help today,” Sherlock purrs, pressing the card against O’Brien’s chest. O’Brien makes no effort to catch it, letting it flutter to the carpet. “Lestrade, we’ll be in tomorrow to finish up the paperwork for the case.” The DI nods, speechless as Sherlock straightens his coat, popping the collar and flicking his curls free. “Come along, John. I think dinner is in order.”

“Mm, fantastic,” John sighs. “I’m _starving.”_ It doesn’t take a genius to see that he isn’t talking about food, and Sherlock preens again.

“You know what? I’m rather hungry myself,” Sherlock replies, reaching out to snag John’s hand. John gives it up without fuss, letting Sherlock tow him toward the exit as they turn their back on the wide eyes of Lestrade and O’Brien. 

John snorts. “Shocking,” he drawls, his mouth tugging to the side in a smirk. 

Sherlock is still riding the glorious dopamine wave of their coupling. The shift of his relationship with John, from friends to more, has him feeling giddy. And the fact that he got the chance to rub it in O’Brien’s face? 

Well, that’s just the cherry on top. 


End file.
